


At First

by insertcleveruserhere



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cole is the cutest thing, Cute, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fluffy Smut, Just a little dom, Love, Love-Making, NSFW, Orgasm, Smut, Sub Cole, Vaginal, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 16:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12963408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insertcleveruserhere/pseuds/insertcleveruserhere
Summary: I finished Dragon Age and fell out of it, and then read DA: Asunder and got way back into Cole. Maker help me.





	At First

Their relationship was purely platonic, at first. 

He helped her escape her own mind, escape the demon that tried to take her over, and though she was wary of him, at first, she let him into her Inquisition, and hugged him when she learned that he led the soldiers to her, made sure she was safe without letting her truly know. He let her hug him, smiled at the warmth but was unsure of what it meant, and read her, told her that she was birds against the sun, that she was too bright.

And in return – or, perhaps, while he helped her – she helped him escape what plagued him, the fear of hurting someone, of despair overcoming him and becoming him, tearing apart everything he was and replacing it with something that would hurt someone. 

Rosaline Trevelyan was beautiful, in both face and spirit. Many of her soldiers saw both, some only the former and some only relied on the latter. She had black hair that shimmered a brilliant red whenever the sun hit it, and brown eyes that were like the chocolates her cousin and ambassador, Josephine, guiltily ordered from Val Royeaux, but as soon as she was crossed, turned to the same dangerous brown as the jagged rocks that sank ships. But Cole, Cole was more focused on the beauty of her spirit, her very soul. It was in her every intent to help all she could, mercy taking presence in her being and singing louder than Cassandra’s loyalty or Varric’s cunning. Cole felt drawn to her, because she was kind, and good, and helped all, but never herself. At first, he learned how to ignore it, brought her small things, flowers in her hair, cinnamon burning in her windowpane, drawing her to sleep when she overworked herself.

At first, he did small things, but now, he wrote letters, because the small things didn't seem to do more, nothing permanent. She smiled at them, held them close, but never let them interfere for more than a day. 

At first, she merely viewed him as a subordinate, and then as a friend, and then, something inexplicable, something she had no real explanation for. She draws him into the light, further to humanity than he had ever tasted before, and it was bitter, spreading across his body like a terrible sickness, and sweet, pleasant all at once, and it felt like too much. But she was there, through it all, reassuring and guiding him to humanity. 

At first, he would have helped her, but now, he would follow her to the Fade and back, let her guide him to the deepest reaches, because he trusted her more than he trusted himself. 

She was sitting in the gardens. The air was serene, and practically silent, save for the murmurs of onlookers, the gardeners, and the chatters of the birds. Rosaline, though, sat under a tree, the rays of the sun hardly reaching her feet as she paged through a novel.

This was the first time she’d caught a legitimate break since the rebuilding of Skyhold. This was the first time she’d been able to pick up Varric’s latest serial since she joined the Inquisition. 

And then, she saw him. And he couldn’t disappear or make her forget, because he was terrified he just ruined her perfect moment. But, she smiled, and waved him over, and he approached her, step by step, drawn to her as a moth is to flame. 

“Hello, Cole.” She shuts her book as he approaches her, so full of light and mercy despite the cold world surrounding her, the terrible things she was forced to take part in, the players of the Game who thought they could outmaneuver her hand, to make her yield, though she is strong. She pats the shaded patch of grass next to her, and he sits, accepting her invitation graciously. 

At first, the tingling in his stomach would not have been there, the palms of his hands wouldn’t be so clammy, and his heart – for the longest, he had been unsure if he even had a heart – beat loud enough to pound away at his ears. But now, all this happened and more as he looked at her, drinking in the way her merciful spirit filled him.

Compassion. Mercy. They were practically one and the same, and Cole didn’t know what to think of that. 

“The weather is lovely today.” She made a jab at small talk, feeling unsure but not showing it. She had been a bard before. She never let anyone know how she was really feeling. 

The weather, for a mountain, truly was nice, and it was the first time that day it had crossed Cole’s mind. In fact, he hadn’t noticed the weather much at all before. It seemed meaningless, but now that she, his Rosaline, drew attention to it, it seemed all the more important to him. 

His Rosaline. At first, he would never have thought of her like that. She was the Herald, and then the Inquisitor, and then Friend. And now, his Rosaline. 

And he was her Cole, her confidant, her best friend. 

“It is.” He says, feeling rather daft after it passes his lips, “But that’s not what you’re thinking about.”

She lets her mask fall for a fraction of a second, putting it back up almost as soon as it dropped, but he saw. “I’m not.” She admits, “The Empress’ assassination isn’t planned for another half a month, and after Adamant, it’s certainly nice to take a moment…for myself while I still can.” She hesitates, her eyes casting to Mother Giselle, where she’s now planted herself on a bench, reading silently. 

Cole nods, “That’s good. You…like to read. Ink and paper…there was a time it was little more than that to me.”

“Do you know how?” Rosaline inquires, tilting her leg, and therefore her book, and then the rest of her to look him in the eye, “To read, I mean?” The shifting has them closer, and he doesn’t understand why that makes his heart beat faster. He had been this close to Evangeline, once. He didn’t feel this way then. He didn’t feel this way when he first met Rosaline. It, of course, had to be a result of being made more human. It was the only explanation that made sense. 

“I…think I did once.” He purses his lips, and he doesn’t comment on the way she glances downward to them, though he most certainly notices, “But not now. Varric talked about teaching me, but he had to write the letters. The Hawke…her wings were clipped, and she could not fly, but she could still fight.” 

She casts her eyes to the ground, and though the flowers didn’t sing for him any longer and everyone could remember him, he could still feel the heartache he caused, the pain that shot right to her heart. 

His eyes widen, and he tears away from her, as if burned, “I…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken about her. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Rosaline places a hand over his, and he startles, at a loss for words, “Cole, it’s alright.” The promise eases him, and he relaxes under her touch, “Would you like to learn?” 

It takes him a moment to realize that she’s talking about reading, and it takes even longer for him to realize that her fingers are curled around his, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for him to nod and say, “Yes.”

She smiles, “Well, you’re welcome to come to my room whenever you’re ready to begin. Like I said, we still have a few weeks, and with Corypheus finally the one retreating…well, it’s good to finally have a moment to breathe.”

“Yes…” Cole agrees, his voice still cryptic and faraway, “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Never.” She says, face aghast, as if the thought horrified her, “Cole, I treasure each of our conversations. Please, never feel like a burden.”

The book in her hand was all but abandoned on the grass between them, and she smiles as he nods, heat rising to his cheeks. She squeezes his hand, eyes never leaving his. “I, um…” He hesitates, trying to think of something, anything to say, “Heart beats fast, lips sealed with words unsaid, fingers curl and smiles curve. Touch. Touch. Know me, know me, not the idol they see.”

She blushes, pulling her hand away as she retreats into herself, trying and failing to hide the smile on her lips, “Cole, I…I thought you...thought you couldn’t read people any longer.” Her voice is lilted, not Orlesian or Ferelden, and is sweet, like honey. He doesn’t know if it’s the ‘Marcher’ accent, as she was from the Free Marches, or some combination of the three. 

“I can but they’re…glimmers…war and weariness, blood and battle, life learning to lead, clash, kill…beautiful, laying with him, hand on heart, broken, shattered, ‘I love you, only you, Neran, don’t go.’ He didn’t want to go.”

He is thankful she doesn’t look hurt, though a sense of somber falls on her, “I…how were you able to read him? He’s with his clan…back in the Marches, I suppose.”

“It’s like…whispers on the wind, glimmers into who you are. He knows your name, your kindness. He’s proud of you, Rosalie.” She lets a sigh of relief pass her lips, “Fingers grasp at sheets, at skin, beautiful, so beautiful…I…he made you happy?”

“He was a part of my life before I was a bard. A…Dalish diplomat, for lack of a better wording. He came to my parents’ parties, and I didn’t know it then, but he left for me. My parents…would never have approved.” She snickers, looking forward, at nothing at all, “I did love him, but I don’t…not anymore.”

“But, what he did? Those things made you happy?”

She blushes again, at a loss of words for a moment, “I…they did. But it was because it was him, I suppose. When we were in love. We were…foolishly young.” Rosalie laughs again, and Cole decides, rather selfishly, he’d do anything to ensure he heard that every day, “Once, he broke me out of my estate in Ostwick, and we went to meet his clan. They obviously hated me, but it was…incredible. I played with the children there…” Something crosses her face, and she asks, “Cole? How do you feel about romance, now that you’re more human?”

At first, the question would have been cryptic, little more than a misunderstanding, but Cassandra has read him Varric’s books, and he knows – believes, thinks – that he feels the romance, or these things welling in his chest whenever he thinks about Rosalie, much less speaks to her. 

“I, well…hm…I…” He fumbles, “I…Iron Bull knows about romance.” 

She laughs, and he doesn’t know if she’s laughing at him or because of him, and she grimaces when she sees the approaching Commander Rylen. 

“Message from her Lady Montilyet, Inquisitor. She said it was urgent, pertaining to a…family matter.” Rylen’s voice drops at the end of the sentence, though it’s no secret the Montilyets and Trevelyans were related, their affairs were most certainly necessary to keep secret. 

She turns to Cole apologetically as they both stand, her book in arm, “Meet me tonight?” The inquiry almost startles him, but he manages to nod. The smile on her face was absolutely beautiful, and he wets his lips before attempting to reciprocate her smile.

She casts him one more glance over her shoulder as she follows Rylen back inside, her smile only slightly diminished, but returning ten-fold when she sees he’s still looking at her.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He was going to need help.

“Varric! Varric!” He all but trips over his feet as he pushes the door open, before realizing it pulled out toward him, and found the dwarf sitting by the fire, looking alarmed as the spirit practically falls across the table, “I need your help.” 

“Whoa, whoa, kid, where’s the fire?” Varric tries to calm him.

Pointing into the fireplace, Cole all but shrieks, “That’s not important right now!” 

“Kid, it’s just a figure of speech. What’s wrong?”

“The Inquisitor invited me to her room tonight, to teach me to read. I don’t…I don’t…what do I do?”

Varric chuckles, “Oh!” He carries the syllable out much longer than necessary, “Ohhhh. Well, I understand. You’ve got yourself a little crush on the Inquisitor, it seems.”

“I don’t understand. Heart still, breath still, but then she touches me, fingers on fingers, knuckles brush, and it starts so fast. Bump. Bump. Bump.” He taps his chest in time with each word, trying to explain to Varric exactly what it was he felt, “I need you to help me, please.”

Varric laughs again, clasping his hand on Cole’s shoulder and shakes his head, “I can. I will. If I know anything about our Inquisitor, she’s a bleeding heart. She’ll definitely appreciate something small. Flowers, for example? I saw a particularly nice patch of wilds flowers growing around the gazebo, the ones the Warden managed to send Leliana. I’m sure she won’t miss them, and the Inquisitor could use them to spruce up her desk. You catch my drift, kid?”

Slowly, Cole begins to nod, “I do.”

Varric trails after Cole as he heads back out to the garden the way he came, watching with a bemused smirk as he heads right over to the patch of flowers. 

“They smell of honey.” Cole says, rather enthusiastically, “I hope they know they’re for someone who needs them.” He picks one, and smiles, looking down at the red inside of the beautiful white blossom. Fiery beauty inside innocence. Cole couldn’t describe Rosalie better himself. 

“Go on.” Varric smiles, as if he were a proud father, “Red won’t mind.”

When Cole ascends the stairs to the Inquisitor’s chambers, the sun is setting outside, his throat is parched, but not due to thirst, and his palms sweat, and he doesn’t know exactly what he’s meant to say when he finally reaches her room. 

He reaches to knock at the door, and then hesitates, murmuring to himself about the injustice of it all. Finally, he coaxes himself into knocking at the door in two, short knocks, and he immediately regrets it. 

“The door is open!” She calls, the door muffling her voice, and he stills, hand hovering over the doorknob. He wishes he could disappear, but instead, he manages to will himself to open the heavy wooden door, immediately met with the cool gaze of the Inquisitor. Rosalie. His Rosalie. 

She smiles, and he’s surprised her cheeks can support the grin, “Cole. I was beginning to wonder if you would come.” She stands from her desk, uncaring of the work there and strides across the room to meet him in the middle. 

At first, he would have helped her by putting cinnamon on her windowsill, but now, all he could picture was the way Neran helped her on her bed back in Ostwick, and he shudders, imagining what it would be like if he helped her like that. 

“Cole?” She breaks him from his fantasy, a guilty heat rising to his cheeks as he all but thrusts the flowers into her arms.

“For you.” He stammers, “They’re, um…flowers.” 

Rosalie accepts them graciously, as she did all things, and smiles at him, “Cole, they’re beautiful.” She pushes herself up on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek before turning away to find a vase, pouring in some of the water from the unused water from the bath basin in, bringing life to the dead flowers. When she was finished, she asks, “Did you come to learn to read, or was there another -.”

He doesn’t hear what the end is, and knows that if he waits any longer, he’ll burst, “I don’t understand it, Rosalie. When I’m around you, pleasure coils like a snake, beautiful, but ready to strike, dangerous, cold, harmful, but I don’t know what to say or do or where to put my hands.”

She says nothing, but she takes two steps toward him from her desk, coming closer than he had initially been prepared for.

“I…” He tries, shaking his head, as if to banish some terrifying thought, “I want to pleasure you, the same way Neran did, all those years ago.”

Her breath hitches, and he thinks he’s said the wrong thing, but instead, her hand traces his jaw, a smile beginning to pull on her lips. 

“Can I kiss you?” She asks, and the pleasure doubles and the doubt begins to dissipate. 

He doesn’t know what to say – or how, for that matter – but brings himself to nod. Her hand is still on his jaw when their lips touch, his hands going to grab her elbows, trying to draw her in closer, always. The pleasure explodes behind his eyes, unknown, but not unwelcome. 

She pulls away first, just a little breathless, and the first thing he says is, “I think I may be able to make you forget. If you didn’t like it?” He’s giving her a means to walk away, and her eyes hold a combination of amusement and sadness. 

“Did you like it?” She answers his question with a question, and he considers countering by merely repeating it, but instead, he nods again. Pushing herself back up on her tiptoes, her lips go to his ear and Rosalie whispers, “Don’t you dare let me forget.” He can’t even bring himself to nod before they’re kissing again, and his enthusiasm shows. He doesn’t know what to do, but he follows Rosalie’s lead, a hand on her hip and a hand in her hair. 

When this kiss ends, she asks, “We can stop now.”

Eyes widening, he shakes his head, “No!” He shies away, just in the slightest, and, with less fervor, says, “I, um…I don’t want to. If you don’t, of course.”

Rosalie. His Rosalie. At first, he would never have dreamed she’d lead him over to her bed, covered in silken red sheets, watching as she unbuttons the beige Inquisitor garbs. His eyes must be larger than his face, but he tries to take it all in, to memorize it in case this would be the last he saw of her. 

“I can’t be the only one naked for this to work, Cole.” Her voice is understanding, patient, a bit of a laugh added in, but he still reacts as if it had been a command, immediately taking his hat off and letting it slip from his fingers when she reaches her navel. He shrugs off the layers of road leathers, doing everything in his power to watch, but not be too much. 

He’s never been self-conscious about his body before. There was no reason to. He had been a spirit, viewed himself as little more than a ghost, but embarrassment wedges itself into the pool arousal in his stomach. 

Her skin is tanned, copper almost, and he watches with enthusiasm as she tosses the torso of her outfit in the general direction of her loveseat, making short work of her pants and smalls. The pair of dots on either breast – Varric told him about those – are a dark brown with a pink center, cold and stiff from the mountain air, and downward, he sees the patch of wiry black hair, trimmed and maintained, but beautifully foreign to Cole. She shucks her boots, and before he realizes, she’s naked before he is, but she walks over to him, kisses his cheek and then his lips, and helps remove his pants and boots.

She’s touched him like this before, at first. After Haven, she brought him up to her chambers, stripped him of his clothes, and submerged him in the big basin she used for washing. She cleaned his chest, let him scrub away with the soap, ran her fingers through her hair with the soap making short work of his many tangles. The water had been brown when he stepped out, and he had told her of his time before the Inquisition. 

Now, the added memory sent a bolt of pleasure right to his abdomen, and as she kisses him, she eases his back onto the blood red sheets of her bed, a wicked smirk she and Leliana and Josephine all shared. She ensures he’s comfortable against the headboard before placing her legs on either side of her chest. 

Time stilled. He didn’t know where to put his hands, or what to say, or do, but he didn’t want it to stop. 

Once more, she lowered herself to his ear and said, “If you want me to stop, tell me so, and I will.” The promise hangs in the air as he nods, his voice seemingly abandoning him. 

She kisses him for the third time, plump lips soft against his, and he lets his tongue sneak between her lips. She lets out a hum of surprise, and just as he goes to pull away, she pulls him closer, a hand curling in his hair. 

The kisses trail lower; a kiss to his jaw, a nibble to his collar, a trail right down to where the pleasure coiled and the appendage – penis, or dick, as Varric called it – stood erect, dribbling with pre-cum. 

“I…” Her lips touch the head, and he moans out. He doesn’t see the grin on her face as her tongue darts out to taste him, and he doesn’t notice the enthusiasm in her eyes as she kisses the head. She starts slow, but he throws and arm over his eyes, already a panting mess. “Rosa – Roooo…” He doesn’t get through her name, and he wants to make her feel just as good as he makes him feel. He doesn’t want to hurt her, does everything he can not to buck up and meet her there, but it was taking more out of him that he had intended.

Mercy and compassion. Mercy. He almost scoffed, had he not been experiencing her lips on him. She was most certainly not being merciful right then. Or perhaps she was. He wasn’t sure, but he wanted more. 

As if she hears his pleas, she takes more of him until he cries her name out, sounding oddly like a prayer. She feels him twitch in her mouth, and he doesn’t know any better, thinking that it was what was meant to happen. He almost swears when she pulls away, wiping the saliva from her chin away.

All he manages is a pitiful whimper, and she strokes his jaw, “I know.” Her fingers are coarse from years of fletching arrows and mistreatment of the Game. She presses a kiss to his jaw, giving him time to regain control of his breath. 

“I want…” He lets a stream of gasps escape his lips, “Want to…make you feel good.”

Rosalie smiles at him, not one of her smirks, but a smile that made his heart still, and she says, “Trust me, that display was more than enough to make me feel good. But this will make us both feel good.” She looks at him, one final time, “If you still want to, that is.”

He nods, quickly at first, “Yes, please.” 

His enthusiasm makes her laugh, “Are you ready?”

He nods again, “Yes.” For what, he didn’t know, but he trusted her, body and soul, and could prepare for whatever came next. 

They’re in a similar position as when they started, her legs locked around his hips, her arms on the headboard, and he lying down, a kiss planted on his lips for luck, and she does it.

He sees stars, a string of moans passing his lips. She’s slow, at first, hands locked around the headboard, and she swears, says, “Andraste’s knickers.” And she moves. 

He groans, unable to control as he bucks up to meet her, and the moan that escapes, all for him, is too beautiful not to transcript to memory. 

She lets him set the pace, a slow, kind pace.

They are love-making.

She gasps as she continues to rise and fall on him, eyes opening slowly to look at him. His eyes are screwed shut, nose condensed in concentration, mouth agape as moans and other endearing, beautiful, sexy, sounds escaped his lips. 

“You know…” She moans as he hits a particularly sensitive spot, “I thought…thought you came up here to read, honestly.”

“I like this better.” He says, without opening his eyes, and she laughs.

When he does open his eyes, he’s staring at the mounds of flesh bouncing and falling in time with their pace.

“You’re welcome to touch.” She smiles at him, taking one of his hands, without skipping a beat, and placing it on her breast. He just holds it at first, the pleasure becoming too much, but begins to experimentally tweak the dark brown nipple – nipple? – drawing a moan from his Rosalie.

The thrusts become sloppy and uncoordinated, and neither of them care. He sees stars, both of his hands falling to her hips to help steady himself, and she cries out his name, his name alone, feeling so existentially content, and he practically sighs out those three dangerous words, “I love you.” The orgasm makes his mind haze over, and he doesn’t let the embarrassment sink in yet. He just lets the pleasure in, for once, selfishly. 

The words hang in the air for a few terrifying moments as they let one another ride out their orgasms.

She catches her breath, practically falling on top of him, pressing kisses to his neck and jaw, with yet another whisper to his ear. “At first, I didn’t you could.” She kisses just below his ear one more time and says, “I love you too.” 

Perhaps, at first, neither of them saw this coming. Perhaps, it was enough to carry them both through the impending storm. So long as he had his Rosalie.

After a few minutes, Cole perks his head up and asks, “Can we do it again?”

**Author's Note:**

> Yup, I'm going to Hell. But you're the one who read it this far, so see you there.


End file.
